


snuggling is for suckers

by blondeslytherin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Sick Character, Sweet, pure fluff, soft, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 13:24:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17387186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondeslytherin/pseuds/blondeslytherin
Summary: Keith is sick, and he can't stand for people to touch him when he's like this. Of course, that doesn't apply to Lance.





	snuggling is for suckers

**Author's Note:**

> alternatively subtitled "and i'm a sucker for you". This one is for the anon prompt sent to me on tumblr today! it was kind of weird to write all fluff and this was done in like, an hour, so i hope this fulfills what you were looking for!!
> 
> prompt: I would love like a short fic with one being sick and cuddly, and the other one just taking care of him.. I’m really sick and I need some cheering up.. no problem if you don’t want to, thanks anyway!!!
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated and loved!

Keith could count the number of times he’d been sick on one hand. A total of three times in his life had illness ever gotten the better of him, and never before had it felt like death had come knocking on his door only to taunt him mercilessly with images of splendor while refusing to take him down for the count.

In short, Keith felt like _shit_.

Living, barely breathing, vaguely coherent, _shit_. No amount of flu medication was going to make him feel better and the Excedrin he had taken still refused to work for him. His skull throbbed with every little creak of his apartment, and he was nauseous to the point where he wished he would throw up, because throwing up would feel a hell of a lot better than almost throwing up but not quite.

His phone chimed somewhere in the dark, and he stuck a hand out of his blanket huddle to slap blindly around his bed for it. It chimed again, and Keith groaned, miserable.

Fucking hell, being sick was the worst.

It chimed a third time and it was enough that Keith finally located it, retracting his arm and letting his phone rest on his stomach under the covers for a moment, just…existing. Even the simple task of barely moving one arm had cost him whatever precious strength he had built up, and Keith’s jaw quivered as another wave of ick ran through him. The one thing about being sick that Keith hated the most was the feeling of helplessness and general miserableness. Crying wasn’t exactly a frequent hobby of his, but being sick made it a rather extreme exception, and tears pooled in his eyes the longer he thought about just how miserable he was.

And then they got stronger when he became annoyed at feeling childish like this.

And then he really started to cry at the turmoil inside him that festered like his fever.

_I just want someone here._

The weight of his phone anchored that thought, and he knew he could probably check the messages he received, but the effort was still too much to bear. Only when it chimed _again_ did he pull it up, out of the opening closest to his face (really, on his face, as his phone knocked into his chin), and pressing the power button.

He immediately winced at the sudden bright light in a darkened room, shutting it off just as quickly as the pounding of his head came back to him. _Just rest a moment._

The pounding passed, and Keith woke up his phone once more, reading the message bar.

**Lance: 4 new messages.**

And then Keith checked the date, and his heart sank, panic gutting him in an instant.

_Oh fuck._

**Lance: hey babe, just checking in to remind you about tonight :)** _5:45_

 **Lance: Keith? You there?** _5:47_

 **Lance: not to be that boyfriend or whatever but I’m kinda worried just a bit dude, you haven’t talked to me all day. Nothing’s wrong, right?** _5:56_

 **Lance: alrighty then. Guess that answers that question. Was I too forward or something? Are we moving too fast?** _6:15_

As he read them, the tears making a reappearance once more, the dread sank lower and lower into him and if Keith thought he felt miserable before, it was nothing compared to the way he felt seeing Lance’s obvious disappointment and heartbreak. They were supposed to have a date tonight, and the relationship was still new enough that the bitter pain stung more than it ever should.

_Fucking hell. This is why getting sick is the most inconvenient thing in the world._

They had only been dating for about two months, and before that, Lance had liked him for a long time. It wasn’t that Keith never liked him back, he just didn’t _know_. Because he had been in the same boat as Lance. And so this... everything between them was still fairly new, as each tried to figure out how to date after being friends and liking each other for so long. A no-show at dinner would have been killer, had he been in Lance's position.

He reread the text messages and sucked in a painful breath when Lance’s typing bubbles came up, and then went right back away. There goes his jaw again, quivering like nobody’s business as his body ached from the strain of holding his phone up.

With weak fingers, he slowly typed out a response to Lance, stopping every now and then to close his eyes because the light hurt that much.

**Me: hey, I know this is last minute and I feel awful, but I can’t make tonight. Something came up**

Lance’s response was instantaneous.

**Lance: are you okay?**

Keith hesitated. Being sick was one thing. Having people worry about you _because_ you were sick was another. When people worried about you, they hovered, they were insistent, they were _overbearing_. And worst of all, they always thought that physical contact was the best solution when really it was the worst. Not only could you get sick as well, but when you’re clammy and sweaty and smelly, you become overly self-conscious about how everything seems to be bad and make you look bad.

Keith wasn’t too fond of telling people when he did get sick.

Which was why he found himself at a loss for the response he sent back to Lance.

**Me: I’m really fucking sick rn dude. I can’t even get out of bed. I meant to text you earlier that I couldn’t make it, I’m really sorry for the last minute shit**

**Lance: oh babe, I’m so sorry. I’ll be over in 20**

_I—_ “What?” Keith said aloud, voice rough. Lance was coming over? Here? To be with Keith, while he was sick?

**Me: you really don’t have to. I’ll be fine. Just a little under the weather**

**Lance: too late, already in the car. Also, don’t lie to me, please. If you can’t get out of bed, the boy who runs 2 miles every morning even in the snow, something is def wrong. See ya soon babe**

Keith frowned at his phone. He didn’t want Lance coming over here. Lance would want to coddle him and snuggle and make him feel better and all those mushy things. Keith may be sick, but he wasn’t _that_ sick. He didn’t do huggy-feely shit, no matter how many feet he had in the grave. Yeah, some physical contact was alright, and he was learning his boundaries with Lance, but even holding hands could overwhelm him sometimes. Snuggling—no way in hell.

The last thing he remembered is frowning at his phone—at the time—and wondering if it was possible to stop a Lance in motion. And then he must have drifted off, because then there was this insistent knocking at his door and it’s loud and all he wants is to go back to sleep, dammit.

But he got up, one of his multitude of blankets draped around his shoulders like an old-timey traveling cloak, shuffling his feet and slouching as he moves like Usain Bolt’s turtle to answer the door.

Light blinded him again, considering he left his whole apartment with the shades drawn and the hallway lights are never turned off.

He squinted, shuffling away from the door before he can even take in who was at the door.

“Wow you really look like shit.”

Ah yes, Lance.

“Lance—”

“And that was super insensitive of me, wow. I’m just not used to seeing the unbreakable Keith Kogane in a state like this.” His voice softens. “Poor baby.”

Keith had his eyes closed as he leaned against his fridge, fighting off a wave of vertigo and trying to stay upright.

“‘m fine,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, so the cheek that goes to his forehead catches him by surprise. Two firm palms on either side of his face and Keith sinks into the feeling before he knows what’s happening. “what’re you doin?” His words are muffled by the fabric of Lance’s t-shirt, and he’s too worn out to move his head away.

“Checking your temperature.”

Keith hums. It seems like a valid enough answer, his sick-brain decides.

Lance pulls back and Keith tries to chase the body warmth, but Lance holds his face firmly, forcing Keith to make eye contact with him. Keith’s vision swims.

“How long have you been sick?”

“Dunno.”

“Keith.”

“Like, three days or something.”

Lance’s eyes narrow as he sighs heavily, air making his nostrils flare. And then his face softens once more, and his palms relax just slightly on his face.

“Your fever is through the roof,” he murmurs gently. “I can tell that even without a thermometer. You don’t happen to have one, do you?” Keith shakes his head, and Lance sighs again. “Didn’t think you would.”

They stare at each other for a moment, Keith feeling like at any moment the gravity on his body will become too much, when Lance steps forward and wraps his arms around Keith, hoisting him up.

“Alrighty then, let’s get you taken care of.”

Keith wants to protest—he really, _really_ does—that he’s not some baby that needs taken care of. But Lance’s strong arms feel good and Keith cannot find it in him to care anymore.

They maneuver back into his bedroom where it is blissfully dark, and Keith is okay with sinking right then and there to the floor to take another nap, but Lance is guiding him into bed, making sure that he doesn’t trip over the lip of his bedframe, tucking him in with the covers all the way up to his chin. Keith snuggles down into it despite himself, sighing as the ache in his body seems to lessen, just a little bit.

“Have you eaten today?”

Keith shakes his head slowly, careful of the headache that threatens to come back with force.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

It goes quiet, and Keith can feel the pleasant warmth of sleep pulling him under, when Lance’s gentle voice breaks the silence.

“Hey love, I need you to eat this.”

Keith does protest then. “Not hungry.”

“You need to eat, or you’re just going to feel worse.”

“No.”

“It’s Chinese food,” Lance beckons.

Keith cracks open a single eye. “From the good place?”

“The one on fifth street. Picked it up on my way over, since we're missing dinner and all, and knowing you, you probably wouldn't have eaten otherwise.”

Keith sticks just his hands out of his blanket cocoon. “Gimme.”

Lance laughs at him, and Keith pouts. “You need to sit up, love, or you’ll choke.”

Lance gets him sitting up and only once they’re both sure (well, Lance really) that Keith isn’t about to topple over in bed and spill everything everywhere, the Chinese rice is in his palms and Keith hates that Lance is right; food does make him feel better.

A weight dips in the bed next to him and then Keith is joined by Lance, pressed shoulder to shoulder.

They eat, Keith in small bites and Lance in bigger ones until Keith doesn’t think he can eat anymore without throwing up for real this time. Lance takes the carton from his with careful hands and sets it on a bedside table. He sighs.

“This reminds me of college.”

“Why would you ever want to be reminded of that?”

Lance snorts. “Just of the good times, when we would study together, and it would be nights like this—without you being sick of course—and it was just. I don’t know, soft? Simple?”

Keith glances over at Lance, face barely distinguishable in the low light, and feels a surge of emotion.

“Did you like me? Even then?”

It’s like Lance knows when he’s being watched; his gaze slides slowly over to Keith, and Keith thinks he sees a fond expression, but it might be the fever making things wavy around the edges.

“Yeah,” Lance says, in a quiet voice that makes Keith think he’s in a fever dream after all.

“Sleep now,” he mumbles, and Lance sets his own food off to the side, pulling down the blankets to allow Keith to shuffle back under them fully, tucked all the way up to his chin once more.

“Do you want me here?” Lance asks, and Keith can feel the weight shift on the bed as he readies to leave.

It’s an open invitation, and Keith doesn’t even open his eyes, the sick feeling reclaiming its hold once more, but without the ever-present feeling of ‘miserable’. “Stay,” he whispers, and Lance’s weight pauses on the bed before settling down next to him.

Cold seeps in as his blankets are lifted and then a warm body is being pressed up against his, Keith immediately sinking into the touch.

“Warm,” he mumbles, and Lance huffs out something that sounds like a laugh. Long legs intertwine with his, and Keith feels a hand reaching for his as well. He sniffles, using a free forearm to wipe at snot, and the laugh turns into a faint sound of disgust.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“I’m sick,” Keith mumbles in the babiest voice he’s ever heard come out of his own mouth.

“I know, sweetheart,” Lance mumbles, shifting closer and placing a soft kiss on his temple. “And I’m going to take care of you.”

Keith hums. “You know, I don’t even like cuddling.”

“Yeah? I’ll tell you that I was surprised you said yes, since you can’t even hold my hand sometimes. Which is perfectly fine and all cause everyone has their own boundaries and whatnot—”

“But I like you.”

Lance goes quiet for a moment, before replying, “I like you too.”

They’re soft and warm and Lance might end up just as brutally sick in three days, but for now, he’s content, even if he does still feel like death is mocking him.

Sleep doesn’t claim him as quickly as he thought it would, so they end up spending over an hour like that, bodies intertwined and Lance running his fingers through Keith’s gross hair, but Keith is so far gone that he can’t find it in himself to care. Lance tells stories of Cuba, of forgotten beaches and summers spent licking snow cone syrup of his fingers, of home and happiness and the joy he finds every time he sees snow. Keith listens to him speak, lulled by his sweet words and heavenly fingers, content to lay there for as long as possible.

He’s safe, he’s warm, and he’s in the arms of Lance.

Being sick isn’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos keep me going. tell me a line you liked maybe?  
> want to see a prompt of yours written? come find me @  
> tumblr: blondeslytherin  
> insta: blondeslytherine


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